


Anonymia

by Hyoushin



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Drug-Induced Sex, Human Experimentation, I Tried, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Linear Narrative, What Was I Thinking?, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2743694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Kaneki Ken was erased, the CCG's scientists theorized they could, perhaps, further develop his latent hermaphrodism. The question was, should they proceed to do so, would he be able to successfully create life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anonymia

**Author's Note:**

> Another TG kmeme fill. This one was quite interesting to write. A part of me wants to turn this into a fic.
> 
> Warning: I used Arima's pov, but he's a freakin' mystery to me so I'm sorry if he's too OOC, I went with my instinct here.  
> [This is the prompt!](http://tokyoghoulkink.dreamwidth.org/1787.html?thread=264187#cmt264187)
> 
> OP, I hope you like it, although I'm not sure if this was what you had in mind. I even wanted to rewrite it but I didn't have any time left...and I promised so...here it is.

 

The small round table was flooded by a colorful sea of paper. If you were to glance at the content of some of the papers, you would have seen comical cartoons with asymmetrical frames, quaint and quite original landscapes, oddly contorted geometrical figures, or just rainbow-colored spiral-shaped nonsense. Scattered and forgotten drawings were slipping from the edge of the table, swaying gracefully on the air before landing on the floor in utter silence.

The red crayon, which was grasped by a tiny hand, glided back and forth across the petal of a flower, while another hand kept the sheet of paper firmly in place. Enthusiastic yet careful were the even, almost systematic, strokes of the child upon the last petal, pouring a special kind of effort on staying inside the lines. She sat on her heels, crouching over the table; her face scrunched up in an endearing expression of deep concentration. Her current task absorbing every drop of her attention.

Seated on a chair, with a book on his lap, her father watched her with a faint smile on his young and handsome face.

“Daddy look!” She said, springing to her feet. The hastiness of her movement shoved the table a few steps forward; and like ripples on a lake, crayons and pencils and markers rolled around aimlessly. Ignoring the chaotic state of her rudimentary studio, she went to her father, and gave him a happy grin. Her graphite-stained fingers were holding up the finished drawing like a trophy.

Setting his book aside, he lifted her with gentleness as she let out a ringing giggle. He placed her on one of his knees, and examined the result of her work. “It’s beautiful.” He said, easily identifying the flower his daughter had drawn.

“Really?” She asked, looking up at him with big grey eyes which glinted with contagious joy.

“Yes, really.” Her father answered at once.

It was there, vivid red contrasting sharply against pure white.

She beamed her satisfaction, and for an instant, he was speechless; for buried memories began to _burn_ once more.

It was there, etched upon the paper, a most beautiful spider lily.

A _Lycoris radiata._

 

* * *

 

Kishou didn’t mind it when people spoke about him. He had gotten used to the admiration, to the fear, and to the envy. He was at the top, because he became the best.

Back then, he had been too young to realize that being the best meant to be under their thumb. He was chosen because he was indeed the best, but he was also reminded that he wasn’t at the top. Not exactly. In fact, he never had been.

He didn’t mind that either, that was inconsequential. On the other hand, the objectives that supported his actions, and transformed them into accomplishments, had the most importance. They were carved and clear in his mind, and he wasn’t interested on deviating from the path he had already selected.

He knew they were constantly devising new strategies, weaponry, training programs, unstable experimental schemes with the primary aim being total annihilation behind it all. Still, humans were inferior in every sense, compared to its lifelong enemy: the ghoul species, and no matter how many technological advances were made that wouldn’t change.

Soon enough, the invisible ethical line was simply blurred; and it was definitely deleted without hesitance when it finally arrived: the opportunity to create a formidable soldier; one that would purge the inherent weaknesses pertaining to ordinary humans.

The golden opportunity was delivered by a powerful artificial hybrid to their doorstep, and of course, they didn’t refuse.

Once again, because he was the best, he was chosen.

This time, however, he did mind the role he had to play, but of course, he _couldn’t_ refuse—and he didn’t.

 

* * *

 

Was this the fifteenth attempt? The sixteenth?

He had ceased counting.

At least, inside the laboratory, the ones who had to count, weren’t watching.

On the tray, the ampoules were empty. It was a requirement that they take the entire dosage. The burning liquid was traveling through his veins. His mind and his body were under the effects of the drug. He couldn’t fight the overwhelming need that controlled him.

Beneath him, his partner was in a similar state. The same drug had been modified taking into account his singular nature. The effects were sharper in him; the slender body of the half ghoul was flushed and compliant and overloaded with fervid desire.

He writhed and arched his back, yanking with heated desperation the black bindings above his head, which were coiled around his crossed arms tightly. He gasped, moaned, and instinctively bared his throat; his senses absolutely lost in the midst of an unbearable pleasure. RC suppressants maintained his kagune dormant, and locked up within him.

His mismatched eyes were fixed on him. They were glassy with unrestrained—chemically induced—lust. He jerked his hips up, barely following the frenetic rhythm of intense, aggressive, irregular thrusts. His body absorbed the impact, taking all of his length in with unnatural ease.

The same behavior pattern that had set itself, and which led the two of them to the expected result in each encounter, hadn’t ever shifted to include anything else that was unnecessary—until now.

Kishou didn’t have an answer that could explain why exactly he leaned down to kiss the half ghoul, when he hadn’t done that before. Their lips met, the spontaneous contact brief but firm, while his waist was suddenly captured by hard-muscled legs.

This time, something seemed to break, change, and merge, as he kept ramming into the svelte sinewy body below him, snapping his hips back and forth, harder and deeper, somehow with much more fervor than ever before, as his muscles tensed, and his body sprinted eagerly towards the end.

Then, before long, the effects would wear off while they were still joined. They would look at each other intently; neither of them would dare to utter a single word. They would just share the usual feeling of understanding and revulsion (and something else which remained nameless) on whatever they were forcing them to conceive.

They would clean up and dress with quick, practiced motions, their backs facing each other; one of them would stay, and the other would leave.

They would respect the silence. The silence was sacred. The silence meant balance.

 

* * *

 

Kishou detested the ending, more so than the beginning. After the end, he was only a despicable accomplice, the mandatory shameful silence at once stabbing and draining him. He would gradually regain clarity, and start to ponder, to question, to doubt, as he was wont to do when he was alone, safely isolated from this ongoing experimental horror.

Inside this organization, the few who truly ruled were at the uppermost echelon: a shaded place wherein mad fear disguised as forged indifference was festering into a degenerated management. The rest of them were just mere pawns. Initially, he hadn’t cared about any of that, as long as he could do what he did best. But—that was before he had been entangled in this unmoral scheme.

They were manipulating _life_ —how could you explain to a child that they were the product of a fabricated union; that they were born in a designed pseudo-scientific environment; that their reason for existing was to be used and then discarded.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

He wished them failure.

 

* * *

 

“You look tired. You’re not resting properly. Are the nightmares getting worse?” Kishou said ‘tired’, but no, that was an understatement. He could see the weight of exhaustion dragging Haise down. He wouldn’t be surprised if Haise was forcing his body to function.

“Well, yeah…I can’t hide anything from you, can I?” Haise said, rubbing the right side of his neck.

The notion of Haise, hiding something from him (or Akira) was ridiculous. He couldn’t lie. Haise preferred an open way of living, a straightforward way of executing his duties. He was that sort of person. He certainly knew, however, that the fragments, of the persona he once had adopted during his previous life, tormented his psyche with ironclad persistence and dangerous zeal.

He hadn’t met the person Haise had been three years ago. Therefore, he wouldn’t be able to tell if the person he had been, and the person he was nowadays, were completely distinct or not. He wouldn’t be able to assess how much his current personality had diverged from the former one.

But it was obvious that the site, where the epicenter of his horrors laid, could be found in his past (a past that shakes and attempts to shatter the rough foundation in which Haise doggedly stands on every single trying night).

Kishou had wondered time and time again what would happen, if Haise were to learn the concealed truths about his life. If the lid were to be removed, and all the secrets flowed out free and wild and volatile—at the very edge, who would fall and who would come out as the victor? Would it be the sinister shadow which hung on every corner of his fragile mind?

“I’ve told you this before, if there is something you require, feel free to tell me, and I’ll provide it.” The concern in his voice wasn’t feigned in any way, and his words weren’t bounded by obligation, courtesy, duty or the like; because there was something indefinable that went higher than anything else; a mystifying connection that inevitably had been formed the moment in which their lives had been irreversibly welded together.

“Ah, wait,” Haise tilted his head slightly, “Akira was right, I can sense the fatherly vibe right now,” he muttered, and a soft smile touched his lips. His countenance acquiring a healthy cheerful tint.

What would really happen if Haise remembered? If he suddenly recalled the _final memories_ , which were those that had the potential to complete the evident destruction that had already been underway. That risk, which was always pulsating with brutal intent, was nestled in Haise’s subconscious; this knowledge being an indelible and unbreakable fact.

The decision, to bear by himself the burden of the last memories Sasaki Haise had as Kaneki Ken, was reinforced. It was reinforced when he saw the silvery warmth in his eyes, and the sincere fondness in his smile. The sight conjured up before his eyes the face of the little girl he had sworn to put under his care.

Without a doubt, she took after his protégé; and after all these years, this particular thought still produced a poignant kind of flavor.

It was a lingering blend of causticness and cruelty.

 

 


End file.
